The Best Bloody Detective
by OneInTwain
Summary: "York C. Hiram is the smartest bloody detective in this city and he does not have time for shrieking women." - AU, London, 1800s. it's a fateful night, full of fog and murder, and the police's least favorite source of information is about to meet its newest eyewitness-and neither of them is likely to enjoy the experience. Hiruma, Mamori, not a crossover more of a rip-off XD .
1. I: A Dark And Stormy Night

**Wrote this for Tumblr, but I figured why not? FF needs some more crappy AUs, and I'm just the person to produce them. 8D So, for your viewing pleasure, some Hiruma *coughHOLMEScough* wandering the streets of London. **

**Edit: now with fanart by a lovely, talented Tumblerite: toastyhat. tumblr (insert a 'dot-com' and a / here) post/28269932142/a-little-fanart-for-this-masterpiece-headcanon (You know the drill: take out the spaces because FF is a bitch. XP)  
**

* * *

There's going to be another bloody damsel in distress on the scene.

He knows because when the kid with the sqeaky, panicky voice called in the crime there was another voice in the background, and it was a woman, and it was screaming—a lot, actually.

York C. Hiram is the smartest bloody detective in this city and he does not have time for shrieking women.

He does have time, on his leisurely stroll down to the crime scene, to appreciate the appropriateness of the weather. London tonight is a mass of fog that coils around the streetlamps and makes the occasional firelit window glow red.

Nothing like a red glow to add atmosphere.

Hiram yawns and resettles his longcoat around his shoulders, turning up the collar against the chill of the fog. He's always liked being out at night. Granted he's perfectly fine with the stares and murmurs that surround him during the day, but it's easier to get through the streets without the whole goddamn evangelical force of the bloody church of England swarming him—and the bloody kids running up and staring at him and asking him if he's from the circus.

Hiram hates bloody kids.

Well that's beside the point now, because there oughtn't to be any kids there tonight. Tonight, the order of business is a murder. Serial murder, actually—and the coppers do a pretty bang-up job of keeping the kids out when they think the crime is nasty enough to scar their innocent little hearts.

…which was idiotic, Hiram considers to himself, watching his reflection ripple past in the dark shop windows. He'd seen plenty of crime before he'd hit thirteen, and he's turned out just fine.

Maybe not this kind of crime, though…

He hears the coppers before he sees them—a bonus of those big, pointed ears, he's found. Besides being bloody useful when it comes to intimidating the coppers off his crime scene, they pick up a lot of sounds other people don't hear. There's chatter he can't make out, and neighing horses—brilliant, he just _loves _big dumb animals that shit everywhere, why couldn't they just bring the bloody automobiles?

When he's a block closer, he hears the woman again.

"Don't you patronize me, sir!" She's saying, and he resists the urge to roll his eyes; she's got that trained accent, high-class. "I'm trying to tell you what I saw, if you would just _listen_ to me!"

"Ma'am," says another voice, and it's a familiar one, deep and gritty and tired with an accent that's common as dirt compared to the bloody damsel's. Hiram grins at the sound, wide and sharp-toothed and satisfied. _It's the bloody geezer. _Always a pleasure, working with London's best and brightest carpenter-cop. "You gave a statement already, we're waiting for a detective who'll check over the scene."

"I'm telling you, you need more than some _detective_!" The woman yells, and he can picture the geezer's face, one finger dug into his ear to block the noise. "I saw what did it, it was a monster! And haven't you seen what happened here?"

"Actually I have," says the bloody geezer dryly, but the bloody damsel in distress isn't listening to him; she keeps right on yelling.

"You can't tell me it he was murdered just because he's American, no one would kill for something like that! He was assigned to _catch_ this man and he was getting close, and now—oh my goodness!"

Hiram gives the damsel a little wave as the bloody geezer turns to him and says, "…Late again, Hiram. You're never on time for anything, are you?"

"That—" the damsel is still staring at him. Well, he must have made quite a sight, melting in out of the shadows like he did. "That's…your detective…?"

He sweeps off his hat and takes a bow and she gasps as he straightens up, the light falling on his pointed teeth as he grins—his pointed ears as he combs his fingers through the spikes of his hair and turns to the old man, ignoring her. "Murdered," he says immediately, and gets a nod in response. "And he was a bloody sharpshooter, too, always had a gun and a bodyguard with him. Crushed bones, smashed door, broken windows—and a bouquet of those damn red and white roses. The bloody game is afoot now."

"And…an eyewitness," says the bloody geezer, and points him straight back to the damsel, who's still looking at him like he's popped in for a visit on his way back to hell.

"Fine," he tells the geezer, and turns to the woman. "Bloody Damsel-In-Distress!"

"Don't call me that!" she snaps back at him, and he raises his eyebrows at the old man. A bit fiery for her level of schooling. And for a second, when she was mad at him, he thought he heard a hint of an accent. Irish? Fascinating. "My name is Mary! Ma'am, to you."

"Ma'am-Mary—"

"Now you listen to me—!"

"—you're not worth my time and I honestly I don't care what the hell you have to say to me," he tells her, and then turns and starts to walk toward the crime scene.

And then there's a whistling sound, and an umbrella takes his hat off.

* * *

**If you can guess who the murderer and the victim are, you get kudos. I make it fairly obvious. This was really fun to write actually, so there might have to be more of it at some point. We shall see. Moriarty is out there somewhere... :D Maybe someday I'll write about him and find out who he is. **

**(...does this mean Kurita is Watson?)  
**


	2. II: Bloody Mary Weeps

**For a lovely reviewer who will remain unnamed, who inquired whether there was more of this fic. I had honestly forgotten I even wrote a second part, insofar as this counts as one, but here you guys go. It was never really meant for general publishing, which is why it's not very high quality and it starts ****_in media res_****, but it is more of the same and I thought y'all might want to know what happens next.**

**We join our intrepid heroes in a dark alley, facing down the murderous monster of the London backstreets...**

* * *

He can't fight this.

Carl still can't believe he had the nerve to fight back at all, let alone to knock this colossus back, but he has no time to be disbelieving; the monster snarls at him and flicks one huge hand; Hiram's limp body goes flying like a child's doll, thrown effortlessly across the alley. He slumps over and doesn't move; what's visible of his face is pale and ashen, his blond hair is streaked with blood.

Carl stares up at the man-at the monster who broke his truest friend in the world-and can't move.

"Boring," rumbles the monster, and a hand reaches down toward him, its fingers already smudged with bright, bright blood. "Gimme a fight at least."

"We have to go," whispers the voice in the shadows, and the dark-suited figure shifts uneasily. "The police are coming. Now. We have to go now. And he's not going to fight you, let it go for now."

"The little one's still alive," snarls the monster, and advances a step towards Carl-towards Hiram, still curled up against the alley wall. Something thick and dark is trickling across the cobblestones under him, filling the cracks between them and forming little rivulets as they wind towards a clogged drain. "I wanna finish 'im off."

"Come back for him," says the man in the shadows, and the monster twitches a hand like he's waving off an annoying fly and keeps walking, his eyes fixed on Hiram. "Come back for him. I'll get you to him, have I ever failed to find you...eh...prey before?"

The monster pauses-sighs.

"Make good on this," it mutters, and the man in the black suit laughs a little shakily and says "Si, si," before even the faint shadow of his presence vanishes without a trace.

The monster looks down on Carl, and the light gleams off its eyes as it sneers. "Not worth the bloody time," it growls to itself, and then it's running, vanishing out the other end of the alley as the sound of yelling voices rings over the dark streets.

Carl isn't listening-he doesn't care. All he cares about is the limp body behind him. He crawls back across the alley and tries to turn Hiram's lean, black-clad form over; things crackle under his hands and he almost drops him in sheer horror. He remembers at the last second that dropping him would make everything worse, and he closes his eyes and holds his breath as he slowly, gently turns the detective over and lays him out on the street, trying to remember everything he knows about medicine. But this isn't a gunshot wound and there's no medics and no first aid kit here. The police will never get their ambulances anywhere near this little alley, the roads around it are far to thin and badly cobbled.

Carl has no idea what to do.

Normally when he has no idea what to do these days, he'll ask Hiram; Hiram is no gentleman, but as both of them have agreed he is the smarter of the two. His decisions almost always seem to work out well, except...

...except now he's lying on the floor of the alley, bleeding from the scrapes and gashes where the monster dragged him along the wall and threw him across the alley. His face is pale and slack and his eyes are closed-without the manic energy that seems to always animate him, his body is terribly small and thin compared to Carl's big, calloused hands-and under the layers of black cotton and wool that he seems to be constantly swathed in, things crack and bend where they shouldn't.

He has to get him to someone who can fix him.

That is the only thought that matters, so Carl acts on it. It's much the same feeling he had the very first time he met Hiram on that fateful night so many months ago; like a switch has been turned in his head, and suddenly he finds he can act without hesitation with one single-minded goal in mind.

Find a doctor. Fix Hiram.

He's big and he knows he's strong, even if he doesn't use his strength for much anymore; it's the work of seconds to reach down and gently scoop up Hiram's still body. With Hiram's (thankfully unbroken) legs folded and his arms resting on his chest, he makes a childishly small load, and Carl gets up and start jogging towards the end of the alley. (He forgets, suddenly, that he should have a cane-the rolling stride he has cultivated for so long is suddenly no longer needed as his thoughts focus fully on protecting the person who has protected him.)

"..._bloody...f...fat-arse_..."

And Hiram stirs weakly and worms one leg free to prod Carl sharply in the stomach with the toe of one pointed, polished shoe. "..._g-going...the wrong...bloody w...way_."

"Hiram!" Carl swings around a corner and starts to work his way in the opposite direction immediately, glancing down at his friend's face as he runs. He's not sure whether he's frantic with worry, relieved beyond words, or just unbelievably grateful that Hiram is even breathing. "Don't move old chap, you're...well, you're...under the weather."

"Oh...really," Hiram rasps, and for a second the corner of his mouth twitches like he's going to grin. "-wouldn't have-guessed-" and then he coughs roughly and bares his teeth in something somewhere between a groan of pain and a sharp-toothed snarl of annoyance. "-bloody god-damned-" he coughs again and when he opens his mouth to take another gravelly breath there's a thin coating of red along his lips-even as Carl watches, almost paralyzed with horror, a bead wells at the corner of his mouth and trails down his cheek. "-on my own-bloody streets-damn it..."

And then his eyes slowly unfocus and slide shut, and he's still again.

The policeman had insisted that she didn't need to come, but Mary is not the type of woman who would shirk her duty for the sake of her own personal safety and she made sure they all knew it before she climbed up onto the rattling automobile, her umbrella held on her lap like a weapon.

The blonde-haired sergeant with the scar on his cheek tipped his hat to her and then busied himself behind the machine, and Sam rushed up and dropped into the seat next to the driver as the automobile gave a few worrying shudders and coughs and the smell of smoke filled the air. He was wearing his policeman's badge again, and the cap and heavy goggles that had hidden his identity from her for so long-he glanced back at her and gave her an apologetic smile as the blonde policeman cranked the engine into life and the constable who seemed to be friendly with Hiram spun the wheel and went rattling off into the night.

And now here they are, as far into the alleys and backstreets of London as the automobile can take them, and Mister Carl is jogging out of the shadows with a black bundle of cloth and pale skin in his arms, his suit torn and dirty, his face red and sweaty, his eyes wide with panic.

Mary may not be able to make the hospitals accept her, but she has always believed that's all the more reason to sharpen the knowledge and experience she does have, in anticipation of the day some stubborn employer realizes her gender is secondary to her skills. Her eyes dart over the detective's limp body as the constable pulls off his jacket and bundles it up, helping Mister Carl lay Hiram out with his head resting on the dark fabric.

Hiram's right arm is visibly crooked, his weskit torn and the visible scraps of fabric beneath stained vividly with blood. His face is bruised, and his breathing is shallow and rasping-judging by the amount of injury done to his chest and arm, he was crushed against a hard, rough surface with considerable force, and dragged along it with enough pressure to tear both his clothes and the skin beneath them. Some part of Mary's chest seems to constrict at that thought, and something much like hatred bubbles up below her worry and her trained, habitual calm. The image of his face flies into her mind; a sudden, quiet sound, like he can't believe what just happened, his eyes wide with shock and pain as the shadowy monster from her nightmares lets go of him. He would try to stand for a second but his legs wouldn't support him after a blow like that-he would crumple forward-

"-to keep him lying flat, I think," says the constable's voice, and Mary jolts out of her thoughts to a hot prickling in her eyes and a strangling tightness in her throat. Mister Carl looks like he's going to break into tears as well; he's kneeling at his friend's side with his hands wavering nervously in front of his chest like he doesn't know what he should do with them. There's a growing bruise on his face, and Mary spares a moment to wonder whether he's the reason Hiram isn't a mangled corpse like so many other detectives who have investigated the case of the mysterious bouquets. Then she snaps awake, banishing those thoughts with a little shake of her head and pulling off her riding gloves and her hat.

The constable looks slightly taken aback as she kneels down, ignoring the way her skirts soak in the rainwater and unbuttoning her sleeves to roll them back as far as possible. But he's always been more accepting of the attitudes other men regard as 'impropriety' or 'disgraceful'-and as unflappable as he usually looks his mouth is set and under his unshaven beard his face is slightly paler than normal as he leans back down over Hiram, working his knife through the fabric of the detective's sleeve. Mary has heard he's a construction worker when he isn't working for the city and it certainly explains his uncommon strength; she sees the muscles work through the cheap cotton of his sleeves and Hiram's thick wool coat peels away from his mangled arm with deceptive ease as the knife tears through the material.

From there on, the night is a blur. She remembers the constable holding Hiram's arm in place as she hacked the black wool coat into strips and bound the bone straight; the moment of embarrassment and the fleeting thoughts of propriety and reputation-quickly dismissed-as the rest of the detective's vest came off, revealing a pale, lean chest stained with drying bloody and bruises...Mister Carl holding Hiram's uninjured hand carefully in one of his own in the back of the automobile and doing his best to keep him from shifting as the machine bumped and banged through the silent streets.

And now they're sitting in the police station, drinking hot, bitter coffee and waiting.

The letter-_the_ letter-is still in her coat. Mary feels it burning in her breast pocket, and doesn't look at it. She doesn't dare.

She knows what it will say.

So when Sam comes in, his goggles on his forehead making a mess of his flyaway hair and his face set with determination and says firmly, "...I'll take over for him sir. If...if 's alright with you, sir," she shuts her eyes and thinks she can see that sharp-toothed smile and hear that deadly little chuckle.

_We'll track him down, bloody Mary. Kekeke-you just wait. What kind of detective would a chap be without a few tricks up his sleeve?_

_You are not to go out on your own, Hiram. One of my men will go with you-_

_Bloody geezer, when have I ever needed a damn nanny to do my work? You just keep the fat-arse from following me. He would just...get in my way._

_Only idiots guess, bloody damsel. Guessing dulls the brain. Almost as much as that morphine shite._

_HIRAM!_

_Like I'll just go marching off to die like her majesty's little soldier, Bloody Mary._

Sam is brave and young but so much older than she thought, and she realizes suddenly how the fear she's been feeling has been here the whole time; how afraid she has been ever since the second she looked at that pale, pointed face and saw that there was a person behind it. Ever since some unidentifiable moment when suddenly he wasn't just a foul-mouthed no-good detective anymore.

And now those fears have come true.

_Our brave boys in blue are plenty good enough even without me_, says York C. Hiram's voice in her head, as the DeMonne police station comes to life around her and Sam lays the maps out and stands up to speak, his new badge clean and shining on his chest. _We'll get him. And there's no way I'll die._

And Mary sits there and watches his still face, and she believes him.

* * *

**EDIT: I had to clarify this for someone so I thought I would put this out here...just going to cop-paste what I said to them. Sorry for any confusion! :)**

"No, Hiram isn't dead. Just severely indisposed. He's out of the investigation by way of have several broken bones and a minor concussion, sort of like a scaled-up version of what happened to him in the manga. That's why Sena (Sam) is taking over the investigation from him even though it puts him in the line of fire, just like Sena took over as quarterback when Hiruma got smashed in the Dinosaurs game. :) Sorry about the confusion. :D Like I said, this was kind of a half-assed writing endeavor, and I didn't put too much thought into reader comprehensibility because I was pretty sure I wasn't going to post it.  
Peace!  
-Twain"

**So yeah. No, he's not dead. I'm sure he will make a comeback at the last possible second. But this is his 'Reichenbach Falls', so to speak. He is in serious pain and unconscious, but he is not dead. XD**

**If you still can't guess who the killer and the Moriarty of this story are, I can't help you. XD You better go reread Eyeshield 21. Imagine all of the 'monster's lines in a low class growly British accent and all of 'Moriarty's in a sort of high-class-British/Italian mixture, and you're set.**

**...I have a compulsive need to write the part where Gaou breaks Hiruma in any AU that I write. _ So I doodled this up a while after I wrote the first one. Hope it suits! :) Have a happy Valentine's Day!**


End file.
